The 'Marrying' Type
by Tabitha Slate
Summary: Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. I'm not the "marrying type," and she knows it. I'm not like Harry. Harry's the "marrying type." I'm the – bloody hell, I don't know – the "loser-best-friend-with-serious-commitment-issues-of-the-marrying-type-guy type." Yeah, I'm that. That's what I am. - R/Hr, fluff piece. Ron's perspective. T for coarse language. R&R!


Sometimes, I think I must be mad. No, wait, I take that back. I _know_ I'm mad – I'm barking mad. I'd have to be to even consider going through with this. I mean, come on. I love her and everything, but… this is _forever_ we're talking about. I'll be waking up to the same woman, every morning, for the rest of my bloody life. Just imagine all that bushy hair.

Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. I'm not the "marrying type," and she knows it. I'm not like Harry. Harry's the "marrying type." I'm the – bloody hell, I don't know – the "loser-best-friend-with-serious-commitment-issues-of-the-marrying-type-guy type."

Yeah, I'm that. That's what I am.

I can't be a husband – I'm rubbish enough at this whole 'boyfriend' bit – and Merlin help me if she misses her contraceptive potion.

Oh Gods, she's been taking her contraceptive potion hasn't she? I'm sure I saw her take it. No, wait. That was Monday. Monday? Was it really that long ago? Maybe it was Wednesday. Or perhaps yesterday? It had to have been yesterday. (Blimey, who am I kidding? I don't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning.) She'd have taken it yesterday. I've never known her to miss a dose. So, it's settled. She couldn't possibly be pregnant.

Now, what was I going on about, before?

Hell. This _ring_.

I can't do it. I really can't. I'll just, you know, take it back to the jeweller – it's probably the wrong one, anyways, I would never know the difference. Yeah, that's what I'll do. Hermione will never be the wiser.

Unless someone's already spoiled it. Gods! What if someone's spoiled it?!

I thought I'd kept the secret well enough, but what if I haven't? What if someone's told her already?

Well, Harry wouldn't have told her. He knows all too well what this is like. And Mr Granger, too. (Granted, he hadn't been all that surprised. Said he'd been expecting it since Hermione's first letter home about "the red-headed boy that teased her" at school. I still blush at the thought of it.) He swore that his lips were sealed until I was ready – but that was over six months ago, before I even bought this ruddy ring. He might have told Mrs Granger, or perhaps she'd figured it out, too. And then Harry might have told Ginny! That's what husbands do, isn't it? Tell their wives things? And women talk, I know they do. It's like second-nature to them - gossip, I mean. When Harry asked Hermione to help him choose a ring, I never heard the end of it: 'he's so nervous, Ron!'; 'I can't wait to see the look on Ginny's face!'; 'Do you think he'll kneel down right there in the pitch?' It was no more than a stroke of luck that Ginny hadn't found out. (Well, maybe not. Ginny isn't the most observant witch around. But Hermione is! And I've never kept a secret from her for this long. She can read my face like one of her bloody books!)

What if she already knows?

She knows, she's got to know. Harry must have told Ginny and Ginny must have been hinting around at it, and now, Hermione must be expecting some extravagant dinner and some extravagant speech and an extravagant ring-

Gods, Harry Potter, I swear. If you weren't the Boy-That-Couldn't-Fucking-Die, I'd kill you. And Ginny, too. At this point, they deserve it – they've ruined my marriage before it's even begun. They're meddlers, is what they are. They meddle. And now they've meddled up my humble, little proposal and have got Hermione thinking in 'extravagants'.

I'm doomed. Doomed to be a bachelor for the rest of my life.

Bachelordom isn't all bad, I suppose. I wouldn't have to pick up my dirty socks. I could just leave them there, on the floor, letting them stink up the flat with that satisfying, manly musk that Hermione hates so much. I wouldn't have to do the dishes, either. Or scrub the floors. Or lower the toilet seat. And I could drink as much as I damn well please!

Well, that's starting to sound better and better.

'But you wouldn't have Hermione.'

Yeah, yeah. I know. I wouldn't have anyone to go to bed with every night or to wake up beside every morning, but that's beside the point.

No, it isn't. It _is_ the point. _Hermione_ is the point. I've just… got to get through this, is all. Like ripping off a bandage. Or stabbing a Horcrux with the sword of Gryffindor.

Destroying horcruxes? Simple. But asking your girlfriend to be your wife? I would rather eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

Merlin, why does this have to be so difficult?

I can't do it. I really can't do it. I can't be that perfect husband, and frankly, that's what Hermione deserves. She deserves some extravagant proposal from the perfect man, and… I can't give that to her. I can give her a ring and a fumbling, awkward, "please marry me, Hermione," but that's all I've got. I can't give her a speech, I can't give her some wonderful dinner or the perfect ring.

And even if I did go through with it, who is to say that I could give her a good life? What if she accepts and we get married, and then one day, one of our little rows goes too far? What if some day, down the road, she throws this ring back at me? What if she has had enough and leaves?

That's a distinct possibility, to be honest.

We're nowhere close to the perfect couple – that title would have to go to Ginny and Harry. You know, I don't think I've ever heard the pair of them argue. Not really. They fight over whether the Harpies or the Canons will win the League Cup, but it's all in good fun. Hermione and I, on the other hand, we're always at each other's throats. Somehow, I'm supposed to be able to read her mind (and believe me, I couldn't keep up with her even if I _could_ read her mind). I'm supposed to know when she's upset, why she's upset, and precisely how to fix it. And, you know, I could even handle that… if _I_ weren't the reason she was usually upset. Because I'm "insensitive," she says, and "oblivious."

I may be oblivious, but she's absolutely mental.

I suppose all women are.

And yet here I am, on one knee in the middle of my flat, holding out this sodding ring and imagining Hermione's eyes light up the way they do when I've surprised her. You know, when her mouth turns upward into a smile that she can't contain and she tries to hide it behind her hands. That look – at the sake of sounding like some hopeless romantic – is what I live for. And if she would let me, I would dedicate my life to putting that look on her face.

Gods, that was eloquent. I'll have to say that when I actually propose.

Now, what was it? Something about making her smile forever…?

Oh, for Merlin's sake, I already forgot. And it was _gold_!

Bloody hell. I'm an idiot.

It's back to, 'Hermione, marry me,' I suppose. Though, that sounds sort of like an order. "Marry me, now. Or suffer the consequences."

I laugh at myself, shaking my head. Because yeah, that would go over well.

Whatever I say, it's got to be more romantic than that. Something like, "Will you marry me, Hermione J-" Oh, hell, what is her middle name again? Jane? Jen? Oh, it doesn't really matter. Who knows anyone's middle name anymore?

(Who am I kidding? I can't even count the number of times she's shouted, "Ronald Bilius Weasley!" at me. And it's frightfully reminiscent of Mum, too.)

Best to just cut the middle name, then. "- Granger?"

Yeah, that sounds good. "Will you marry me, Hermione Granger?"

The words taste foreign on my lips, but I was right. They do sound good. And they'll have to do.

Blimey, I can't believe I'm doing this. But I've committed, now. I've said the words aloud, even if only to an empty room. They're out there, and I can't take them back.

Surprisingly, I don't really want to take them back. I'm sort of glad I've said them. Sort of proud, in a way. I say them again, quietly and to myself. "Hermione Jean Granger-" _Jean_! Bloody hell, I knew it started with a J! "Will you marry me?"

Perhaps they're an acquired taste – they don't seem nearly as strange this time. "Will you marry me?" I say again, diligently rehearsing the words like some unfamiliar spell. Speaking of spells, I open the velvet box that I've been holding out to the open air for upwards of a half-hour. The ring's modest – I can't afford much on a beginning Auror's salary, after all – but I think it's pretty. Plain, maybe. But pretty. I carefully take it out of its box, marvelling at it. Six-hundred galleons worth of silver and diamond, clasped between my finger and thumb. It almost seems stupid to spend so much money on something so small. The inner side of it is perhaps the most impressive part. It's sappy, I know it is, but she'll appreciate it. Even if she rolls her eyes at me, I know she'll appreciate it. _Swish and Flick!_ it reads, engraved into the hand-crafted silver. It was the first of a long list of things that Hermione has taught me over the years.

I can't afford to be nostalgic. I've got to practice some more. Because Hermione was right all those years ago; these things have to be said correctly. They require attention. And rehearsal. The emphasis must be put in the right place.

"Hermione, will you marry _me_?" As opposed to who? Viktor Krum? That ship sailed long ago.

"_Will_ you marry me?" What am I doing? Begging?

"Will you _marry_ me? Gods, that's good." And it really is. It's not too needy, it's not too demanding. It's just a question. "Will you _marry_ me?"

I'm getting pretty good at this. _I'd_ say 'yes' to me. And that's really saying something-

"Ron?" she calls from the front door. I hadn't even heard it open.

I fumble with the ring, desperately trying to put it back into its box and shoving the box into the pocket of my robes, just in time to watch her stroll in through the hallway. She eyes me for a moment, apparently amused.

"What are you doing on the floor?"

"Dropped my-" I look at the floor. Thank Merlin I've set my wand down. "Dropped my wand," I say quickly. She quirks an eyebrow. She doesn't believe me. She knows precisely what I'm doing. Ginny's been hinting around about it, remember? She must have been. That's what women do-

She shrugs her shoulder, readjusts her grip on the paper grocery bag, and proceeds into the kitchen. "I saw Fleur in the market."

Perhaps she doesn't know, after all. I snatch my wand up off of the ground and push myself to my feet to watch her absently put the groceries away. "Yeah?"

"Mhmm. She said your mother was having the family over for dinner tonight?" I close my eyes. Is it Thursday? It's Thursday. How many times did Mum tell me? _Ron, don't forget. Thursday. Thursday night._ Hermione must have seen the look on my face, because she smiles. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

She laughs and shakes her head, pulling cans of only-Merlin-knows-what out of the sack. "Don't be," she pauses for a moment to meet my eye. "What better excuse do I have to see how Ginny's doing?"

Now it's my turn to laugh. Ginny's only been showing for about a month, but Hermione can't get enough of it – neither can Mum, for that matter. She's probably downright sick of everyone reaching out to touch her belly all the time. I know I would be. Luckily, I'll never have that particular problem. "I'm sure she's fine."

"Well, I know she's fine, Ron," she mutters, stacking the cans. "But it's fascinating, isn't it? Knowing that you'll have a niece or nephew?"

"S'not like I don't already have four of 'em."

"Ron, you know what I mean," she rolls her eyes again, then turns to stow the cans in the pantry. "It's different this time."

"How is it different?"

"This time, it's Ginny and Harry."

I consider reminding her that Ginny isn't my only sibling and that last time, it was Percy and Audrey, but I think better of it. She's already getting flustered, and I certainly don't want her to start considering her own biological clock. "You're right," I mutter instead. "My best mate's having a kid."

"Exactly," she says, carefully folding up the paper sack and storing it in the designated cabinet. "They're growing up, Ron." She takes a deep breath and then lets it out, finally turning her full attention to me for the first time since she walked in the door. There are words hiding behind her pursed lips, I can see them, but she won't set them free. Not if I don't prod her for them.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. "It's nothing," she lies. Perhaps for the first time, I recognize the lie as a lie. And even better, I actually know what's wrong for once. She's tired of watching the world move forward without us – it's an argument we've had before, and an argument that always leaves both parties feeling lousy. _We've been together for over four years_, she wants to say. _What are we doing?_ I smile despite myself. Even I can appreciate irony sometimes.

"You're sure?"

I see her jaw clench.

She's getting angry. Oh, Merlin. I didn't mean to make her angry. She's going to kick me out of the flat again, just like last time.

But instead of shouting, she just sighs. "It's been years, Ron," she breathes. "When are we going to take the next step?"

I shove my hands into my pockets and shrug my shoulders, squeezing the velvet box in my suddenly perspiring palm. Now's as good a time as any, I suppose.

"Well?" she sounds tired, as though she isn't up for any games. If I'm going to do this, I have to do it now. Before the moment is lost. But is this romantic? Proposing to stop an inevitable fight? It feels right. I'm not going to get another opening like this – another set-up this perfect. Do I do it, now? Right here, in the kitchen? That's not very romantic, is it? But there she is, staring at me expectantly with those big, brown eyes.

I lower myself onto one knee on the linoleum floor, watching her the whole way down. Emotions glide over her face in rapid succession, so quickly that I can't keep up. First, it's anger – she thinks I'm mocking her – then, she settles on confusion, which slowly morphs into surprise. Before my knee even hits the ground, she's decided on shock, and she's lifted her hands to cover her mouth and nose. I open the ring box, and shock becomes – hell, I don't even know, anymore.

"Hermione Granger," I say, not even minding that I've forgotten her middle name again. She doesn't seem to mind, either. Tears are filling her eyes, and they're filling my eyes, too. "Let's take the next step." That was smooth. Really. It was. Much smoother than anything that I could have rehearsed before she came home. "Will you _marry_ m-?"

She pounces on me before I can even get the well-rehearsed words out of my mouth.


End file.
